The Last Stand

She leaves it almost up to him
Subject to most every whim
He ordains, and deeply cares
Beginning with the clothes she wears

He prefers her dresses short
The hem of the highest sort
His brow grows stern if she reneges
On showing off her perfect legs

It seems instructions never stop
Until she dons the tightest top
The silk stretched firm to his request
To display the contours of her breasts

But he's then inclined to strip her bare
Drag her mewling to his lair
Force her face down on the bed
And take her where angels fear to tread

Delighted that she holds his weight
He may be the Master of her fate
He again makes a demand
And wonders if she'll take a stand.